["The Cannibals"] is a nightmare fantasy—an attempt to dramatize the agony and guilt of Jews in concentration camps who betrayed their own people…. The action itself can be most quickly described as hand-me-down Brecht—full of arbitrary movement, ritualistic behavior, pranks, and whimsey. At one point, there is a small charade in which a boy's arm is sold as liverwurst, and the company breaks into "Yes, We Have No Bananas." Much of the verbal imagery is of food…. [The] survivors behave like a Jewish vaudeville team, talking of Howard Johnson's and banana splits and their ailments and their doctors. The voice of morality, on and off, is that of a character called Uncle Tabori. (There's whimsey for you.)…

The play fails—or, at least, it never got to me, who ordinarily collapses at the very words "concentration camp"—simply because it isn't good enough…. The gloating facetiousness...